


Nightmares

by jenlouniverse



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Support, Just hugs and tears, M/M, Memories, Nightmares, No Context, They Just Know, They deserve to be safe and happy, They're just living in a little cottage and they are both alive, Time - Freeform, Trauma, War, Words are not needed, after war, also insomnia made me do it, episode, no kisses, they need each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27604186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenlouniverse/pseuds/jenlouniverse
Summary: How Schofield and Blake react when one or the other has a nightmare(because of course they sleep in the same bed)
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield
Kudos: 8





	Nightmares

  * **Schofield**



> Schofield suddenly wakes up. This time he doesn’t jolt awake. No spasms. He doesn’t move, he is not trembling. He lies on his back, frozen, arms laying at his side, eyes open, heart beating fast.
> 
> Another nightmare.
> 
> After all these months he hoped they would have stopped, maybe soften a little bit. He thought he just needed to be patient because only time would heal those dark memories.
> 
> Instead, they were just so vivid. As if they were real, as if he was back _there_.
> 
> His hands reach his eyes, his face, his cheeks and he tries to focus on the clock to steady the rhythm of his heartbeat. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Unfortunately this time, it doesn’t work.
> 
> His arms are back at his side as he tries to breathe normally. Without success. 
> 
> His head slowly turns to his left and his heart immediately feels a relief. 
> 
> He is here. He is safe. He is _home_. 
> 
> Blake. 
> 
> His ultimate solution is to watch Blake’s chest rise and fall and try to follow. Blake is curled up in a ball, knees to his chest, his face facing the wall, his back facing him. Schofield can not see his chest so he tries to focus on the sound of the breathing. 
> 
> Breathe in. Breathe out. 
> 
> Breathe in. Breathe out. 
> 
> It doesn’t work either. His heart won’t stop its rapid rhythm and his breath stays a little jerky.
> 
> Slowly, he removes himself from the covers, careful as to not awake Blake. He gets up and that’s when he realises he has been dripping with sweat. As soon as he got up, his back felt as cold as his bare feet on the tiled floor of the room.
> 
> His body leads him to the kitchen where he goes to the kitchen sink. 
> 
> Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. 
> 
> The clock in the kitchen is louder and it slowly starts to get inside him. 
> 
> Time. 
> 
> He repeats the mantra he and Blake invented a few days after they came back. 
> 
> **I am here, I am safe, I am home.**
> 
> He reaches for a glass of water only to see that his left hand is shaking and makes it impossible for him to grab it. In the darkness of the room he can’t see the scar but he can _feel_ it. Both his hands grips on the kitchen counter as he looks outside the window. The sun wasn’t up yet but a dim light spread across the sky allowing Schofield to see the garden and nature. 
> 
> Steady. 
> 
> Still. 
> 
> Without a single breeze to trouble the trees and their leaves.
> 
> He stands up, back straight and reaches for the glass of water - with both his hands this time to stop the object from shaking. He drinks, slowly, focusing on the fresh water going from his lips, to his mouth, into his throat. He carefully puts the glass down and looks outside one more time until he decides to go into the garden.
> 
> It was quieter than he thought it would be. Scarier than he thought it would be. A few birds were awake and a rooster was singing in the distance but nothing else could be heard. 
> 
> Nothing but the heartbeat in his chest. 
> 
> Nothing but the heartbeat in his head. 
> 
> He had learned to be afraid of the quiet. It always was too good to be true. Something was always coming. The calm before the storm.
> 
> His bare feet reach the cold morning grass watered by the dew. He closes his eyes and tries to take a deep breath. 
> 
> _Too soon_. 
> 
> Blood, screams, bombs.
> 
> He opens his eyes, left hand reaching for the outside table, right hand reaching for his stomach.
> 
> **I am here, I am safe, I am home.**
> 
> **I am here, I am safe, I am home.**
> 
> **I am here, I am safe, I am home.**
> 
> He stays up for a bit, his feet in the grass, without realising he is shivering from the cold.
> 
> Spring was only a few days away but the mornings were as cold as daylight winter. Schofield didn’t mind. The cold had allowed him to forget about his body multiple times in the past. The cold makes him numb and, at least, by that, his body wasn’t a burden anymore. Not as much as his thoughts. He didn’t mind when he couldn’t feel his feet nor his hands, arms and legs; he had learnt to appreciate it and live with that.
> 
> When his legs can’t let him stand anymore he reaches for the nearest chair and sits on it. He only keeps his back straight for a few seconds before his crossed arms touch the cold table and welcome his chin. 
> 
> He watches. 
> 
> He hears. 
> 
> He _waits._
> 
> Ever since he got back it seems to him that’s the only thing he is able to do. Wait. He didn’t know what he was waiting for. For peace he assumed. For a quiet mind. 
> 
> When they got back they had been treated like heroes. It didn’t feel right to him. They had killed men for four years. They had killed fathers, sons and brothers. _He_ had killed fathers, sons and brothers.
> 
> A sigh. 
> 
> How could they be heroes with all the blood they have on their hands? How could he feel peace when thousands of lives haunt him all the time? He knew there was no way for him, for all the soldiers, to ever feel the way they felt _before_.
> 
> A shiver. 
> 
> How could he unsee all the things he had seen? How could he undo all the things he had done? **Time**. People said it would take time.
> 
> A bird comes at the other end of the table. Schofield watches it sing. There was no one to talk to about this. They came back. They were heroes. They had medals. And that was it. They had to deal with all the rest. He is lucky to have Blake. A lot of them don’t have anyone.
> 
> When he had been out in the street for the first time, trying to have a normal life, it struck him how they all seemed to recognise one another. If it wasn’t for the scars, they all had that same _look_ in their eyes. Glassy, no sparkles to ever shine in them again. Whenever he would meet one, they would both nod, understanding, knowing, sympathizing.
> 
> The bird left. 
> 
> He was tired. He just wishes to close his eyes and see darkness. That was the only comfort he had sought to have. The only comfort he wished for.
> 
> He focuses on the birds. 
> 
> He closes his eyes. Trenches seemed to welcome him everytime. 
> 
> He focuses on the birds. 
> 
> Deep breath. A man - he doesn’t even know his name - falls at his side. 
> 
> **I am here, I am safe, I am home.**
> 
> He focuses on the birds.
> 
> He is half awake, half asleep when he feels something on his back. _Warmth_. He doesn’t move, too tired to even open his eyes as he tries to picture something to put his mind at ease. He focuses on the birds so it could overcome the screams and the bombs.
> 
> His left arm hangs at his side and he feels a hand reaching his. _Warmth_. 
> 
> **Blake**. 
> 
> He doesn’t move but his chest welcomes a wave of relief he has been waiting for ever since he woke up. A thumb gently strikes the back of his hand and he tries to focus on the touch to steady his heartbeat. He shivers from the warmth engulfing him as darkness welcomes him. 
> 
> _He is here, he is safe, he is home._
> 
> His mind, alarmed, wakes him up. The hand, _his_ hand was leaving his, was leaving _him_. A hole immediately starts to form in his heart.
> 
> His eyes closed but his senses alerted, Schofield sends a slow pressure from his scarred hand to Blake’s. His right arm was still on the cold table, his heavy head resting on it. Slowly, sleepily, he turns his head to the left, leaving some of his forehead sweat on his arm. He half opens his sleepy eyes to be welcomed by the face of the man who saved him multiple times and was still saving him today. 
> 
> His face was bathing in the morning light as the sun slowly rose from behind the trees. In his sleepy state, Schofield wonders if the sight is even real. Blake is looking at him with the same sleepy eyes and something of a little smile - which Schofield never saw on any one else as of today. 
> 
> “I’m here.” The young man whispers before a bird could answer another.
> 
> Another wave of relief hits him and the strike of the thumb resumes its regular pace on the back of his hand. He closes his eyes. 
> 
> Breathe in. Breathe out.
> 
> Schofield slowly sits straight and flinches a bit at his aching back from the position he has had for the last few hours. His right arm is numb from holding his head but he manages to adjust the cover on his shoulders before he lets it rest to his side. The pace doesn’t change on his left hand as his head reaches Blake’s shoulder.
> 
> **Home.**
> 
> He feels Blake exhale a deep breath before opening his eyes and look around at their garden being woken up by the sun. 
> 
> _**I am here, I am safe, I am home.** _

* * *

  * **Blake**



> Schofield lies awake. He has been for a while now. Sometimes he even wonders if he ever really slept since his first night in France. How could he? Back there it was the planes, the screams, the bombs. Back home it was worse. The sounds were completed by the sight everytime he closed his eyes; hundreds of dead men, thousands injured or losing a part of them.
> 
> The clock strikes three. Once again, he will not have a seven-hour-sleep night. Never has for the past five years.
> 
> Something shuffles next to him.
> 
> At first, he assumes it’s just a move to sleep in a better position. Mind unconscious, body seeking for comfort. 
> 
> He turns his head to the left to see the man sleeping next to him, but then he moves again. More vividly. 
> 
> **_'He is having a nightmare.'_ **
> 
> Before Schofield can wake Blake up, the youngest grabs his left hand squeezing it with all his strength. Schofield flinches a bit before Blake shifts closer to him, stuck in his nightmare, squeezing Schofield’s hand as hard as he can.
> 
> Schofield squeezes back. Even though his scarred hand hurts a bit, he doesn’t care. Whenever Blake had a nightmare, Schofield wasn’t himself anymore. He knows what it’s like. The things you see and hear. The things you _remember_. The feeling so real it seems he is back there all over again. As if **it** had never stopped. As if he had never left. As if the war had never ended. Which only makes him feel like what they finally have today is some sort of crazy dreams like the ones he - very rarely - had when he was in the trenches.
> 
> His right hand which rested under his head reaches for Blake’s cheek and is immediately covered by Blake’s left.
> 
> When Schofield sees his eyes full of terror maybe reaching out to him had been a mistake. Maybe Blake felt as if he was being attacked. 
> 
> They look into each other’s eyes. Blake’s grips soften on both Schofield’s hands as the tallest whispers a little _'shh'_ in the hope that it would ease the other’s heartbeat.
> 
> Before Schofield can see water on the rim of his eyes, Blake lets go of Schofield’s hands only to throw his arms at him, seeking for an embrace. His head finds its way to Schofield’s chest and their body becomes one as Schofield wraps his arms around the body in front of him, so fragile at this moment.
> 
> “Shh, it’s ok I’m here. Everything is alright.” Schofield whispers over his heavy breaths.
> 
> One hand is striking his back while the other goes up and down in his hair.
> 
> “I-” Blake starts but his voice cracks between two sobs.
> 
> “Shh, you don’t have to talk, alright? Just focus on my breathing.” Schofield’s heart is beating fast. Blake always did this to him. Always had.
> 
> After a minute of inhales and exhales Blake manages to follow Schofield’s breathing pattern and his etchy breathing becomes more spaced out. 
> 
> They stay in this position, hands and arms holding each other until the clock strikes four. 
> 
> Blake is now breathing normally and it seems to Schofield that he fell back asleep.
> 
> “I’m sorry.” He hears nonetheless from a voice that seemed so far away. He doesn’t know if his mind is playing tricks on him from the lack of sleep or if Blake really spoke. “For your hand, I’m sorry.”
> 
> As soon as the words were said, a tingling sensation is felt in Schofield’s left hand. He stops his pacing in Blake’s hair for a second before resuming. Blake slowly raises his head to look into Schofield’s eyes.
> 
> “Hey, don’t worry about it ok? I’m fine.” The eldest man whispers to reassure him.
> 
> Blake nods before making a small pressure on Schofield’s body, his left arm around his waist. It then leaves its place as he takes Schofield’s left hand from behind his head.
> 
> He misses the touch on the back of his head gently striking his hair, but he sits on the bed, legs crossed, while his heart is back to a regular beat. Schofield’s right arm finds its place behind his own head again as he lies on his back. Blake feels his eyes on him. 
> 
> He takes the scarred hands into both his and as his right one holds it, a finger of his left gently caresses the scar who can slightly be seen in the moonlight. 
> 
> He sees Schofield flinch and tense. 
> 
> It’s the first time Blake does this. He never dared to before. Despite the jokes he might have said to him, Blake has always felt guilty about this injury. It was his fault. He almost _lost_ him because of it and it was his fault.
> 
> Tears were threatening to fall from his eyes. He wanted to be strong. He wanted to be as strong as the man laying in front of him, but thoughts of losing him never stopped and it was too much. He closes his eyes in an attempt to stop the tears.
> 
> Schofield must have seen the look in his eyes because he feels him move and soon, his face is surrounded by two hands. All strength seems to leave him as his own hands fall into the space between his crossed leg, shoulders lowering.
> 
> “Hey, look at me.” He hears as thumbs slowly trace a pattern under his closed eyes. Blake shakes his head no. He can’t do it.
> 
> “I’m so sorry. If I-” He is stopped by a sob and the man in front of him seize the opportunity to speak.
> 
> “Remember what we said? No 'ifs’.” Blake nods. “We’re both here. We’re both fine and it’s all that matters, alright?” It’s soft, gentle but affirmative. He nods again. “No 'ifs’.”
> 
> “No 'ifs’.” He manages to whisper back.
> 
> Still not able to look at the strong man in front of him, Blake’s forehead reaches for his chest, defeated, tired. The hands on his face leaves to reach his back and nape and even though it doesn’t stop the thoughts, at least it helps with the breathing.
> 
> A few seconds later, fingertips replace the hand at the tip of his hair to gently trace a way from his hair to his spine. 
> 
> The gentle gesture makes him shiver. Schofield knows him so well.
> 
> Another few second passes in complete silence before Blake’s arms reach Schofield’s back for a hug. **Time** didn’t exist when he was in his arms. Nothing mattered then. 
> 
> Just them. 
> 
> Just _him_. 
> 
> **Schofield**.
> 
> He wants to apologize again as tears escape his eyes. He knows that he says it too many times everyday but it’s just who he is. He can’t help it. 
> 
> He wanted to say sorry to Schofield. For his hands, his pain, and the sorrow.
> 
> He wanted to say sorry to the ghosts. The ones who stayed, the injured, the ones he killed.
> 
> He wanted to say sorry to the world. For who he is, his thoughts, what he had done.
> 
> Tonight was one of those nights where it was just too much.
> 
> “Shh, it’s going to be ok. We’re fine. We’re home.” Schofield says lifting a little bit of the weight he feels on his shoulder.
> 
> “I don’t know what I’d do without you, _Scho_.” He whispers, struggling to let the words out because of the lump in his throat.
> 
> “Me neither, Blake. Me neither." 
> 
> Schofield lets go of him and his hands reach his cheeks once again to lift Blake’s head. His own hands find their way to Schofield’s knees before he takes a deep breath and finally opens his watery eyes. "I’m here. I’m always going to be here.”
> 
> His sight is blurry but the loving words and the gentle hands on his face helps him feel better. He nods. Unable to speak once again.
> 
> “Come on. Let’s try to fall back asleep.”
> 
> They both lay down with soothing touches and their arms around each other.
> 
> The clock strikes five.


End file.
